Krákumál
by Oneiriad
Summary: "My brother has need of you, slave. Will you go to him?"


**Krákumál**  
_oneiriad_

**Disclaimer**: not mine, just playing  
**Warnings**: major character death, non-con

* * *

Ragnar's eyes are pale like the winter wind. His lashes are crusted with salt, his face spotted white. Athelstan can't help but reach out, brush it away.

He had known something was wrong, when Ragnar hadn't been the first to leap down on the dock, when he had been nowhere to be seen. Lagertha had strode forward, even heavy with Ragnar's child as she was, had demanded that Rollo tell her where her husband was - and Rollo had turned from her, had addressed Athelstan instead.

"My brother has need of you, slave. Will you go to him?"

"What? Yes. Yes, of course. Where...?"

He had known something was wrong, but he hadn't thought - hadn't expected to find Ragnar, awkwardly bent to fit in the large chest, his skin blotched where the salt doesn't quite cover. He hadn't expected this.

Athelstan kneels. Behind him are voices, but he's not paying them much mind.

"That was ill done."

"What else would you have me do? Make my brother set sail alone? It is not as if Ragnar has many slaves to choose between."

"I see gold in this ship, I see silver. Slaves can be bought."

"True, slaves can be bought. But none he loved so well. Would you deny him that?"

"No. No, of course not. Tell me, Rollo, how did my husband die?"

"He was captured by the English king. He had gone walking on his own and was caught by the king's men. They brought him before King Aelle, to question him, but he would not speak - so they threw him in a pit filled with vipers. He was dead by the time we got there."

"And what happened with this King Aelle?"

"I taught him to fly with the eagles."

"Good."

* * *

Athelstan watches as they fill the ship with firewood. Watches as they pitch a tent on the deck. Watches as they begin to bear the grave goods aboard and the animals for the sacrifice.

Watches as they bring Ragnar aboard.

They explained to him what is going to happen. They explained what is going to happen to him. They called it an honour.

An old woman brings him a cup and he is made to drink of it, made to empty it. Then, dizzy and stumbling slightly from the mead, he is led to the tent.

He tries to fight, that first time, terror robbing him of the drink's false calm, but Rollo is strong, strong and wild as a bear, and there's nothing Athelstan can do to stop him as he pushes his legs apart, nothing he can do as he is taken. He'd scream, but Rollo's hand covers his mouth, robbing him of even that.

"Tell your master: I do this out of love for him. Tell him - tell him I'll take care of them for him, I'll take care of them as if they were my own. Tell him that."

Finally he leaves, leaving Athelstan lying next to Ragnar, knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, shivering. He gazes into Ragnar's winter cold eyes, but there's no comfort there.

The tent flap is pushed aside and Lagertha enters. He tries to get up, begs her - "Please" - but she pushes him back down, straddles him and starts to move.

"Shhh, priest. Tell Ragnar: I do this out of love for him. And tell him I said to take care of you."

She leaves him broken, filthy, spent. She leaves him defiled, this woman he had thought a friend. She leaves him and he curls back in on himself, staring at Ragnar, whispering the Lord's Prayer over and over again. He doesn't look up as the next man enters. Doesn't look up as the man kneels down by him.

"I have something for you, Christian."

Athelstan slowly lifts his head, looks at Floki, at the cup Floki is offering him.

"It will ease your path. But first, you must promise to do something for me."

His mouth is dry.

"Tell Ragnar - tell him I made sure he got the ship. Rollo wanted me to claim it was mine, said it was too good a ship to burn, but I wouldn't. It's Ragnar's ship, I built it for Ragnar. It's the best ship I'll ever build and I built it for him. Will you tell him that, Christian?"

Athelstan swallows. He _is_ a Christian, after all, a monk, and for all his trials, he has kept his faith - and Ragnar, for whatever virtues he had, this man who had been his captor, his friend, his master, his rescuer, his tempter - Ragnar had been a heathen and hellbound as such.

But the cup in Floki's hand looks so inviting, the promise of it - and perhaps, just perhaps...

"Yes."

It tastes like the forest, wild and deep enough to drown in - and it does make it easier, makes it feel as if this is happening to someone else and not him, not him that is taken, again and again, as Ragnar's men come to pay their respects to the dead.

Eventually, Rollo returns and others with him, the old woman between them, a cord in her hands. They grab his arms and legs, they hold him down, and she loops the cord around his throat and pulls it tight.

Athelstan wants to scream, but he has no breath.

Athelstan wants to fight, but he has no strength.

Athelstan wants to live, but the world is turning dark around him, night falling for the last time ever, and suddenly he wants to touch Ragnar, to be touched by him, held by him as he never was, but it's too late, everything's too late, the darkness is drowning him, drowning everything in a sound like thunder, except - except there's a voice, he can almost hear it, almost make it out, almost, he just has to try a little harder, it's so familiar, he knows that voice, he knows it, it's...

_Athelstan_

**A/N: **This story was inspired by three things.

First, the observation that Ragnar Lothbrok's household in the series is - strangely small. There seems to be no other slaves than Athelstan, no elderly or unmarried relatives - in short, it seems like a traditional nuclear family at a time and a place where that was really not traditional.

Second, the description the 10th century Arab traveler Ibn Fadlan gave of a Viking funeral he witnessed. I've left out quite a few bits and all changes are all my own.

Third, the stories surrounding the mythical/historical Regnar Lodbrog's death, specifically the pit of vipers bit. Also, _Krákumál_ is the title of a poem sometimes referred to as Ragnar Lodbrok's Death Song or similar - a poem Ragnar supposedly makes up as he is being bitten to death by the snakes, extolling the life of the viking. I considered using a quote from it as a title, but honestly, the bit about going laughing into death didn't seem to fit, exactly.


End file.
